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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24702091">Antiques</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/five6793/pseuds/five6793'>five6793</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sanders Sides (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Human, Blood and Gore, Drowning, Gen, Ghosts, Hypothermia, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Suicide, My First Fanfic, Unreliable Narrator</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:53:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>761</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24702091</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/five6793/pseuds/five6793</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's raining outside, and the only store for miles is Sanders Antique Shop.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Unspecified Roman ship - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Antiques</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my first work on Archive, so I'm not very good at tagging. Sorry!!<br/>The working title was</p><p>Me: fluff My Brain: Major Character Death??? Me: nO<br/>My Tumblr is @washer-cryptid-56793 btw!</p><p>Uhh my friend said that this isn't good and I'm considering taking it down or finding a way to orphan it without deleting my account</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's raining outside.</p><p>Some might say it's raining buckets, or it's pouring. Others might use the phrase 'raining cats and dogs'.</p><p>The author of this story is partial to 'raining buckets', if he's being honest.</p><p>Though he hardly ever is.</p><p>Anyhow, there is one simple truth he must tell.</p><p>It's raining outside, and you are getting quite wet.</p><p>You walk up to the door of the only building for miles. The sign, once a vibrant rainbow, is long since faded. But you can still read it. <em>Sanders Antique Shop.</em></p><p>You walk inside, carefully wiping your shoes on the welcome mat before entering. A man smiles at you from a rocking chair in one corner. If you went and talked to him, you'd discover he is the owner, Thomas. You smile politely back.</p><p>The store is beautiful, two stories with a magnificent mahogany staircase. A plaque on the wall states the building was once a noble manor. You can imagine a man gliding down this staircase with prince-like grace. He's be going to a party, maybe a grand ball of some sort. You wonder how the smile on his face would have looked as he saw his lover at the base of the stairs.</p><p>You can't imagine, however, the translucent noble sitting on the grand staircase, regarding you with curiosity in his eyes. You can't see the bullet hole in his stomach or the blood dripping down his chin.</p><p>Moving on, you find an old sewing machine. It still works. It looks to be about 150 years old, not the first of its kind but certainly not new. You feel that it was loved and cherished by its owner. He must've been a kind man, who loved with all his heart. He might've sown gifts with it, loving his creations and the thing that made them possible.</p><p>You can't feel, however, the soft hand on your shoulder as a man glides by to sit by the machine. You can't see the water dripping from his hands.</p><p>You continue through the store quietly before coming across a small acabus. It seems newer than some of its fellow items, maybe early-to-mid 20th century. You slide a few dark blue beads. You can infer its owner was a student, or a teacher. Yes, a teacher. You can assume he must've dressed nicely, prim and proper. A no-nonsense kind of professor that's still kind, in his own way, giving failing students as much extra credit as possible.</p><p>You can't know, however, that a man stands beside you, peering through thick glasses as he jots something down on a notecard. You can't see his shaking, blue-ish hands and frost covered body.</p><p>You're heading to the window when you see an old, well-loved toy spider. It's fur has faded from black to a sad gray, and two legs appear to have fallen off the toy, only to be sown back on. You glance at the old sowing machine. The toy is rather cute on its own, but you sense its story is a sad tale. You fear it was held tightest by a child when nightmares ravaged his dreams, when tragedy spilled into his life. He must've clutched it hard on stormy nights like tonight. You hope it was a comfort.</p><p>You can't stop, however, the small child as he runs into- no through- a bookshelf to stand behind you and smile softly at his spider. You can't see how coughs shake his thin figure.</p><p>You happen to look up and are suddenly taken aback by the beauty of a great chandelier. Its crystalline points throw the light around and make tiny rainbows all around the store. You are about to continue when a thought grips you in a choke hold. You can't help but picture a bloody corpse lying across the chandelier, its crystals leaving one-thousand bloody cuts across the man's body. You shudder and press on.</p><p>You can't imagine the man sprawled across the chandelier, laughing like he's just heard the world's funniest, and probably dirtiest, joke. You can't see the rope burns on his neck.</p><p>~•~•~•~</p><p>The rain has stopped.</p><p>You leave the store happily, purchases in tow. You are alone. There is no one following you. He- there is no he, he isn't there- isn't scarred. His posture- he can't have posture, he isn't there- isn't snake-like at all. His coat- he has no coat, he isn't there- is bright white. He- there is no he, he <em>isn't there</em>- hasn't been following you.</p><p>But of course, the narrator isn't being honest.</p><p>He hardly ever is.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Some extra information-<br/>Roman is the noble at the stairs, he was shot<br/>Patton is the giftgiver at the sewing machine, he drowned<br/>Logan is the teacher at the acabus, he froze to death<br/>Virgil is the child with the spider, he died of tuberculosis<br/>Remus is the guy on the chandelier, he hung himself<br/>And Janus's identity is up to the reader. Is he a ghost? Is he alive! Is he a good? :)<br/>Please leave feedback or tell me is something is wrong.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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